


make this real

by fireflyslove



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Bureaucracy, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Old Married Couple, they've been married for centuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 01:07:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19415317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireflyslove/pseuds/fireflyslove
Summary: “Since 1986,” Aziraphale said, at the same moment Crowley said, “Seven centuries, give or take.”Or: Aziraphale and Crowley have wildly different ideas about how long they've been marriedInsp:This Tumblr Post





	make this real

**Author's Note:**

> I literally wrote half of this on my break at work on my phone it needed to escape my head so bad. 
> 
> Also I just want Crowley in a dress, that is all.

TO: The Honourable A.Z. Fell and Mr A.J. Crowley

_ The honour of your presence is requested at the marriage of Ms Anathema M. Device and Mr Newton T. Pulsifer. Ceremony to be held in Tadfield at Jasmine Cottage on the 6th February 2019.  _

_ RSVP at your earliest convenience _

Crowley was searching through Aziraphale's mail, as per usual, and the thick, heavy envelope fell out of the stack of usual junk. He opened it, and a chuckle rumbled out of his chest. 

"What is it now, Crowley? You know, you  _ invented _ junk mail," Aziraphale said from across the shop.

"The witch and the witchfinder are getting married," Crowley replied. "And we're invited."

Aziraphale materialized (possibly quite literally) at Crowley's elbow and snatched the envelope from his hands. "Oh, how  _ delightful _ ," he said. "We'll RSVP at once, of course." This last was said with a glance at Crowley, who nodded lazily. 

"I haven't been to a wedding in centuries," Crowley mused. "I wonder what one wears nowadays."

-

Crowley had spent a  _ lot  _ of time in front of his closet the night before, and it was only after discarding every single item that he had called Aziraphale in a (rather drunken) woeful voice and asked him what he thought Crowley should wear.

He hadn’t expected Aziraphale to show up at his door six minutes later with a stack of magazines. 

“Angel?” he had asked, opening the door to let Aziraphale past.

“I’ve been doing some research,” Aziraphale had said. And so they had spent a good few hours getting Aziraphale caught up to Crowley’s level of drunkenness and Crowley in increasingly ridiculous outfits that Aziraphale miracled onto his body. 

Somewhere around the third bottle of wine, Aziraphale had snapped his fingers without even looking at the page, and Crowley had found himself wrapped in a slinky length of glittering black fabric. 

Now, hours later, in the winter sunlight filtering through the Bentley’s windows as they speed toward Tadfield, Crowley could see the intricate pattern on the fabric. It rather resembled snake scales, now that he considered it. 

He had willed his hair longer just for the occasion, and it fell in soft curls around his shoulders, held in place by the demonic equivalent of hairspray (fear). 

“I had forgotten how breezy skirts are,” Crowley observed, apropos of nothing in particular. 

“Didn’t you spend six years in a dress when you were Warlock’s nanny?” Aziraphale asked.

“Pantyhose,” Crowley said, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “Nasty business that.”

Aziraphale chose not to make any statements about Crowley’s usual choice in trousers, and the tightness thereof. 

-

The ceremony was short and beautiful and, predictably, Aziraphale cried. He  _ was _ a being made almost entirely of love after all. The assembled company was a rather motley crew; a large number of Devices, Newt’s rather confused looking parents, the Them (and not their parents), Shadwell and Madam Tracy, and of course, Dog. 

Despite the winter chill, the windows and doors were flung open, and people streamed in and out at will. Crowley lost Aziraphale for a moment in the throng, but soon found him sitting in the corner, a cup of champagne in one hand and a handkerchief in the other. He smiled fondly, and started to say something when the happy couple approached. 

“We’re so glad you could make it,” Anathema said.

Newt said something that sounded like agreement, but most of his concentration appeared to be channeled into squinting at Crowley. Crowley raised an eyebrow in response. 

“Did you do something to your hair?” Newt finally asked weakly.

“It just grows this way,” Crowley said. “If you put the fear of G- me into it.”

“It looks very nice,” Newt said. 

“Thank you,” Crowley said.

Anathema glanced between them, and said, “Anyway… Mom said it was good luck to invite a couple who had been married for a long time to your wedding.”

“How long have you been married?” Newt asked.

“Since 1986,” Aziraphale said, at the same moment Crowley said, “Seven centuries, give or take.”

Their heads snapped toward each other. 

“You have something you want to tell me, angel?” Crowley said.

“Do  _ you _ ?” Aziraphale shot back. “Seven  _ centuries _ ?”

“We jumped a broom in Italy in 1328!” Crowley said. 

“That wasn’t legally binding!” Aziraphale said.

“Well, that’s news to me! What happened in 1986?” 

“We got drunk, and I married us!”

“I’m pretty sure you can’t officiate your own wedding,” Newt provided helpfully.

-

They continue the debate (it’s not an argument, not really) for nearly the next week, over dinner, over drinks, and on one occasion shouted over the sound of a dump truck.

Crowley was occupying far more space than he should have been on one of the couches in the bookshop when the bell for the door sounded and a demure looking figure in khaki walked in. Crowley’s hackles raised as the stardust scent of Angel washed over him, and Aziraphale popped around the shelf he had been reorganizing. 

“What do you want?” he asked flatly.

“I’m just the messenger, sir,” the angel said, their eyes trained on the carpet. “M’Lord Jestiel send this.” They proffered a rolled piece of parchment, which Aziraphale snatched from their hand, and then promptly scuttled out of the bookshop. 

Crowley came up behind Aziraphale as the angel unrolled the scroll, but didn’t quite catch what was written on it before Aziraphale let it roll shut. 

“Well, I’ll be fucked,” he muttered under his breath.

“Zira?” Crowley asked. He could count the number of times he’d heard Aziraphale use that kind of language on one hand.

“You were right,” Aziraphale said, and the knot in Crowley’s stomach tightened. “Apparently we were married in Italy in 1328.”

“What?” Crowley asked, not quite prepared for that statement. 

“Jestiel is the angel in charge of the Records Department, and he sent this,” Aziraphale said, opening the scroll so Crowley could read it. 

It was a report on the Renaissance in Aziraphale’s elegant scrawl, but an annotation in a different hand was inserted about halfway down the page. 

_ Principality Aziraphale and the Demon Crowley have been bound in the bonds of holy matrimony -JSK _

“Jesus fuck,” Crowley muttered under his breath. “How did  _ this _ slip past… any of them?” 

“I have no idea,” Aziraphale said. 

“Ah,” Crowley said, and pointed to further down on the page, which covered several decades.

“Ah,” Aziraphale said. “Yes, the Black Death was a rather unfortunate time.”

“That’s an understatement if I’ve ever heard one,” Crowley said. 

“So,  _ husband _ ,” Aziraphale said, setting the scroll aside. “It seems you were right. Now, why haven’t you mentioned this in the last  _ seven centuries?”  _

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found anywhere a panty hoes @fireflyslove.


End file.
